


Somnolence and Snow

by Maker_of_Rune_Vests



Category: Sleeping Beauty - All Media Types, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Canon Divergence - Post-Thor (2011), Canon Divergence - Thor (2011), Chronic Tiredness, Evil Uncle, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Implied Marital Relations, Jotun Loki, Nonsexual Physical Abuse, Prince Loki, Sleeping Beauty Retelling, Thor: Ragnarok (2017) Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-05
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2019-02-28 12:00:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13271016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maker_of_Rune_Vests/pseuds/Maker_of_Rune_Vests
Summary: You are a strangely tired princess with an evil uncle, betrothed to a scapegoat prince.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Elly_Hiddlesherloki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elly_Hiddlesherloki/gifts).



_The Princess of Asgard had always been a guest at the christenings of Dísniheim, but the Executioner of that golden realm, when she arose, was not welcome there. Unfortunately, they were the same woman, and Hela came the day after the young princesses’s christening with black around her eyes and black braids in her uncut hair and laid a curse, an angry, unpoetic one, on the next princess who would be born: “The day she is twenty years of age, she shall fall asleep and never awaken until Hel freezes.”_

* * *

 

     You stand perfectly still beside your uncle, your father’s successor, to whom you are the heir, trying not to fall asleep on your feet. Even the nervous excitement and fear of knowing you will see your future husband in a few minutes is not enough to make you feel alert. Every year of your life, almost twenty, you have felt more and more tired, and you do not know why and nobody can or will tell you—though your uncle certainly has told you to hide it from your betrothed.    

     Whom you are very nervous about meeting. He isn’t even the prince you were supposed to marry; you were supposed to marry Prince Thor Odinson of Asgard, who would have been the king by the time you’d wed. But something had come up—one rumor said he’d been banished, another said that he’d eloped with a mortal—and somehow, now you were betrothed to his younger brother, Loki. You knew nothing about him. At least you’d known a little about Thor; he was a famous warrior with thunder powers who tended to both start and finish battles. In his miniature portrait, he looked energetic and handsome and quite happy about both of these facts. You’d found what you knew of him rather terrifying, but it is more terrifying that nobody has told you anything about your new betrothed.    

     Your hands are clasped on your full golden skirt. Dísniheim is a poor kingdom, valuable to Asgard only as a place to erect defenses, but you are gorgeously garbed in the color of both wealth and Asgard, and you hope you look pretty. Since you must marry a stranger, you hope he will at least like you and be kind.    

     And here he comes, proceeded by ninety golden guards. You feel as if you can hardly breathe as they keep coming—and that must be him. Initially you’re a bit distracted by the arching golden horns on his helmet and by your shyness, but you manage to look up into his face as your uncle introduces you. It’s neither a reassuring face nor a frightening one; he’s as white as marble, fine-featured with sharp cheekbones and calm, intelligent green eyes. Both his black brows and his thin mouth are a little lopsided, the first with curiosity and the second with a polite, wry half-smile. He does not look brutal or stupid in the least, two of the qualities of which you were most terrified, but he looks entirely capable of being cold and remote.    

     He extends his hand to you, just as pale and fine-boned, softly repeating your name and title, and you give yours to him, hoping he doesn’t notice that it’s shaking. “Lord Loki of Asgard,” you say quietly, and he bends gracefully over your hand and kisses your knuckles. And then your uncle monopolizes him, and there’s nothing for you to do except stand quietly, trying to stay awake and studying your betrothed’s elegant and inscrutable profile, until the meeting is over.    

     You collapse onto a sofa in your suite, falling asleep despite all your maids running about and laughing and talking as they make your raiment ready for the feast and dancing that night.    

* * *

 

     You’re wearing gold again, an even more extravagant dress of it, flowing out behind you so that as Prince Loki bows to you at the beginning of the dance you courtesy and then have to drape the train over your arm before you can take his hand and begin the dance. It’s a very slow one—so as to make it less likely he notices that you’re tired, you suppose. You don’t like hiding things, but you also don’t like to make your uncle angry.    

     You look up at Loki, bareheaded now with smoothed-back hair, and try to think of something to say, something that would help with actually beginning to know him or at least would politely break the silence and cover the fact that you’re already feeling tired again—why is this suddenly so much worse?–, but he speaks first, coolly.    

     “You’re quite graceful, my lady.”    

     “Thank you,” you say, quietly enough that he probably had to lip-read it, and then manage to ask, “Did you have a pleasant journey here?”    

     He smiles faintly. “Quite pleasant, all ten minutes of it. We arrived by the Bifrost.” You stumble in a turn, eyes trying to close, and he steadies you, asking as if nothing happened, “Have you ever seen it?”    

     “The rainbow bridge? No, I haven’t,” you say, and add shyly, “Maybe you could show it to me someday.”    

     “Perhaps,” he says, not sounding at all interested in the idea, and you look down, not even trying to talk for the rest of the dance. It’s awkward, but you’re too tired to care much.    

     At the end of the dance you fail to stop and don’t just stumble—you would have fallen to the polished floor if you hadn’t fallen against Loki instead. He reflexively catches you, and briefly he’s holding you up and looking down at you with unhidden puzzlement, head bent so his face is inches from yours. You catch your balance and step back, face hot, murmuring, “Thank you.”    

     “We’ll sit the next dance out,” Loki says quietly, offering you his arm. You take it, appreciating that he noticed you needed a rest but afraid your—uncle, and there he is himself.     

     “Nonsense! You’ve hardly begun dancing, even a princess can dance two in a row!” he says loudly, clapping a hand down on Loki’s shoulder.                                                                      

    “I’m sorry to have given you the wrong impression,” Loki says with polite insolence that rather makes you want to grin, “but it’s I that need a rest. Bifrost travel—exhausting.” And he sweeps you out onto the balcony and latches the door behind you before your uncle can do anything. You giggle delightedly as you sink onto the bench, making him look down at you with a flicker of real interest. “Do you wish for anything? Water?”    

     “No, thank you, I just need to rest,” you say with your usual quiet politeness, leaning back against the wall and closing your eyes. You hear him sit on the other end of the bench and silently wait, just like he might if he really cared what was going on.

     You open your eyes and sit up straight. “Lord Loki, I need to tell you something, and you must not tell anyone I told you, or that anyone told you. Whether you act on it or not.”    

     One of his brows rises. “I’m listening, and I’ll not tell anyone…especially your uncle.”    

     Well, he’s perceptive. “I’m tired like this most of the time,” you say simply. “And over the last few weeks, it’s been becoming much worse. Nobody can help it, though one doctor seemed quite sure that after I turned twenty or so this will no longer be a problem. But he wouldn’t tell me why not. And my uncle said that I must not tell you, and that if any of the servants tell you they’ll be, ah….” You stop, sickened by the rest of your sentence.    

     “Beaten,” he supplies helpfully.    

     “No, hanged,” you say, and his other brow rises.    

     “How…extreme.”    

     “Please don’t tell anyone you know this,” you say anxiously, more afraid for the servants than for yourself and wishing you’d said nothing, and he nods.    

     “You have my word,” he says, with what you think is a genuine smile, and certainly is a charming one, and you shyly smile back at him, beginning at that moment to think that you could have liked him.    

     You close your eyes again, fighting the tiredness that makes you want to go to your bed then and there, and say quietly, “I suppose you can think of another reason to break the betrothal? You could say that you found out that we’re too poor to pay the dowry. We are, after all, and you probably could find that out by investigating a bit. Or you could say that you heard the rumors that my uncle killed both of his wives.”    

     He laughs softly. “If I were your uncle, I’d be quite afraid of you. No, with your permission, I’ll go through with this marriage. The Allfather seeks the ability to fortify this realm, not a dowry.”    

     “And as for you?” you ask daringly after a moment, opening your eyes again. “Don’t you want a stronger wife, who doesn’t have a sadistic uncle?”    

     Again he laughs quietly, a sound you find yourself thinking you wouldn’t mind hearing often. “I could certainly do without the sadistic uncle…but I’ll take him as an alternative to banishment.”

     You look at Loki curiously, moving a little closer without thinking about it until after you’ve done it, but he only says, “A family crisis. Exile, triple-crossing, enchanted sleep—you really don’t want to know.”    

     “After that description—I really _do_ want to know,” you say decisively, and he smiles wryly and shakes his head.    

     “Trust me, you don’t. The essential point is that I’m accustomed to appalling relatives, and would be delighted to manage your uncle for you.”    

     You smile, liking the sound of that, even if you feel as if there might be some rather dark implications to it, and somehow by now you’re comfortable enough that you can ask quite simply, “And you won’t be angry with me for being tired, if I keep being tired?”    

     “I’m neither a brute nor an idiot, so no, I will not,” he says dryly, adding after a moment, “But you still have not answered whether or not you are willing to wed me. I have a distaste for forced marriage, but it’s clear your uncle would have had no such…reserve when arranging it.”    

     You blush, this not being a question you ever expected to have the chance to answer. But you know what to answer. He’s easily the most considerate suitor you’ve had, someone you can imagine being at least friends with, and an ally against your uncle. “I—I think you are very kind and I will be pleased to maintain our engagement.”    

     He looks at you carefully, and then smiles faintly and courteously kisses your hand again as the tune of the music inside changes. “Let’s sit out this dance too,” he says, and you gratefully agree, feeling more tired than ever now that that rather exciting conversation is over.


	2. Chapter 2

     The next day at breakfast, you have the joy of watching Loki explain in a friendly and detailed fashion to your uncle how too much dancing sends him into a Berserker rage, which you have no doubt isn’t even slightly true, and request permission to paint your portrait–”I shall need her to sit very still, every day, for most of the week,” he says earnestly. “Can you do that, my lady?”    

     “I’ll try,” you say, keeping a perfectly straight face. “Though it will be difficult.”

And so it is that the two of you are left alone together for that entire day (your uncle does not care whether you are chaperoned), in a quiet room, with nothing expected of you–because he’s quite skillfully if hastily painting you from memory by the time you get there.“To show your uncle,” he says with a mischievous smirk, as you gratefully sink onto the couch, more tired than ever. “I’ll simply use you now as reference for the fine details.” You’re asleep before you can reply.    

     When you wake up he’s pacing back and forth, absolutely silently, hands clasped behind his back. You sit up, brushing your hair out of your face, and he looks at you with a slight smile.“Thank you,” you say softly. You feel taken care of, and considered, and you’ve never felt that way before.    

     He shakes his head.  “I’m not disinterested,” he says. “I want to rule a realm, and as your husband I can do that. Don’t think I’m a paragon.”    

     You nod. “Obviously,” you say, with just a little bitterness, that grows to more than a little. “Anyone who married me would be wanting to rule the realm. But he wouldn’t have to be nice to me. I’m sure you know the rules here–no release from betrothal and no divorce until the man desires either, the only protection for wives the fact that they must be alive for their husbands to enjoy their property. You could ignore me or beat me and still get what you want as long as you didn’t kill me.” You stop and take a deep breath. “So let me be grateful to you. You’re kind, and that doesn’t benefit you.”     

     He comes to you, a few long steps across slightly shabby purple carpet, and sits on the couch beside you. “How have you survived such a….nightmarish…life?” he asks, looking down at you with little lines between his black brows.    

     “I’ve been asleep for a lot of it,” you say straight-faced, making him smile. “And I’m used to it.” You look at him curiously. “What has your life been like, my lord?”

     He shakes his head. “I wish to put it behind me–it’s not relevant to anything you could wish to know.” 

     You put your hand on his black leather bracer, and he lets you leave it there. “I want to know you…after all, we’re to be married in two weeks.” And then two weeks before your twentieth birthday, when the one old doctor said your weariness would be over. 

     He draws a deep breath. “Very well. I’m a prince of Asgard, second son of Odin the Allfather and his Queen, Frigga.” His voice warms as he says her name. “Brother of Thor, the God of Thunder. Master of Magic, God of Mischief, once interim King of Asgard. God of Lies to my enemies, Silvertongue to my allies. And now you know me, all titles present."

     You shake your head. “No, I don’t know you.” He looks away from you, uncommunicative, and you accept it, asking a different question in a whisper, “Are you planning to kill my uncle?”

     He looks at you sharply, parrying, “Would you mind?”

     “Not really,” you admit. “As long as you don’t torture him or anything like that.”

“Not a habit,” he says lightly. “But no, I’m not planning to kill him. His pox is torturing him to death, slowly…I’d rather wait and be safer.” He looks down at you, head tilted. “I’m surprised you gave me permission,”  he says softly. “I thought you were such a gentle creature.”

     You flush uncomfortably. “He does very evil things and also….He…hits me–but not for a while, because he wanted me to look pretty to meet you….” Your voice trails off. “You wouldn’t know what that’s like.”

     “You haven’t met the Allfather,” Loki says, quite calmly. “I’ll kill your uncle for you tomorrow, if you don’t want to wait a few months,” he adds, like it’s an afterthought.

 

“That’s all right. But thank you,” you say, as if he’d offered to help you find a book, and you share a rather twisted but comradely smile.

* * *

     The next morning your uncle stops you on your way to…you aren’t even sure what napping while your betrothed reads would be called. Visiting? Not really….“Don’t let him take you and then wiggle out of the betrothal,” he orders, apparently having jumped to that conclusion about what the two of you had been doing. He squints at you, needing to wash his face, voice rough and pronunciation bad, and you are sick of dealing with him.

      “I’m a princess, not a light o’ love,” you tell him scornfully, more scornfully that you really meant to dare to, and his fist instantly swings up and pounds into your cheek.

     You gasp, not because you’re surprised but because it hurt, and nod meekly as he tells you, “You convince him you fell, or it will be worse for you.” You keep that side of your face turned away from Loki, who is reading his way through a tremendous stack of books on your realm’s laws, politics, and history, when you enter the room, and pretend to fall asleep very fast indeed. He already knows that your uncle strikes you, yes, but you habitually hide these marks. 

     He’s still reading when you awaken, eyes very bright as he looks from one page to the next. “There’s a section of the library that only my uncle has the key to,” you mention as you sit up, hugging a pillow because you still feel tired. “But something about you makes me feel as if you can pick locks.”    

     He grins. “What a compliment. I can, and will…Would you care to accompany me?”    

     “Yes,” you say emphatically, excited enough by the idea of finally satisfying your curiosity about that area that you get up without even realizing it. Your hair falls into your eyes and you remember your cheek and become self-conscious, mumbling that you must look like a disaster.     

     “I’ve always found disasters rather intriguing,” Loki says, detachedly. “We’ll go there tonight, then…. Could you perhaps help me understand this floorplan? Which room is your uncle’s?”    

     You cross the room, walking in rhombi of sunlight made by it coming through the windows at a sharp angle, and sit on the couch beside him and point to it. “Though I thought you weren’t going to kill him?”    

     He shakes his head. “I thought it might be interesting to see how he reacts to having visions of snakes whenever he’s alone.” After he looks one more time at the map, he closes the book with a little thump.


	3. Chapter 3

     Your hands are squeezing each other with nerves and excitement as you wait in the moonlit library, a few rows of books away from the locked door leading to what must be the most interesting books of all. There are shadows everywhere, shadows between shelves and behind books and under your feet, and shadows…moving, moving around the other ends of the room, ducking behind shelves. Here for who? You? Loki? Which of you did they follow, precede, guess the course of?  Your heart pounds and you stay perfectly quiet and perfectly still, trembling, but keeping your eyes open, ready to try to run if you get the chance, or to warn him if he needs warned. And there he comes, all in black, walking down the middle of the library as if there were no dangers in this realm. The shadows creep towards him and you cry out, startling yourself, “Watch out!”    

     And then everything moves much too fast. The shadows attacks him in smooth unison and he–vanishes.    

     Green light.    

     He springs out from behind a shelf, a shining knife in each of his hands, and blood sprays through the moonlight on each side of him as he cuts two throats and then whirls to stab another assassin in the heart.     

     Someone presses a cold hand over your mouth, hurting your bruised cheek, and you see a knife shining, shining, coming towards your throat. You throw yourself downwards suddenly, kicking back at the man’s shin, and jerk a long hairpin out of your hair, jamming it at his face. He screams and you run, holding your skirt up, stumbling to a stop as you see Loki dropping to one knee to stab his knife down into the heart of the last of his assailants. “There’s one more,” you gasp, hardly necessary since that individual is still screaming  a few shelves away and now, suddenly, running towards you, heavy feet unevenly hitting the shadowed and bloody floor.

     You barely have time to start running again before Loki, in one movement, rises and swings you to the side as if dancing again, and thrusts out his other arm so that the last assassin runs directly into his dagger and falls, your hairpin in his eye.You feel like you can’t breathe, like the room is spinning–but not sleepy, you realize with wry humor. That’s a blessing…. Oh, he’s talking to you. “–uninjured, my lady?”

     “Yes, thank you,” you say, your polite little voice making you want to laugh hysterically. “Are you? Oh–you aren’t….”

     Loki looks down at the blood flowing from just below the shoulder of his right arm and raises a disapproving eyebrow at it. “It’s not serious. But if it would not be below your dignity? Difficult to bandage there, with one hand.”

     “And the left at that,” you say. “Of course I’ll help.”

     “I’m ambidextrous,” he notes, offering you his left arm. “And thank you.”

     The two of you walk calmly out of the library, though you can tell how vigilantly he is watching your surroundings, and toward your suite, leaving six dead assassins on the floor behind you. You do not speak until you are in your sitting room, watching him bar your door and then check your few windows. “Is this how people usually–usually act after  people try to kill them?” you ask softly. “This calm?”

     He turns toward you with one of the lopsided half-smiles you’ve realized are his usual type. “I’m not sure there’s protocol, or an etiquette.” Wincing slightly, he sits down and begins removing his bracers, undoing small buckle after small buckle. You rummage in your embroidery basket for linen, and overfill a pitcher with water, finding yourself staring blankly at it for a moment as it drips down the sides. “It may or may not comfort you to know that in all probability nobody was trying to kill you,” he says. “They were trying to kill me–they followed me–and you were a witness whom your attacker, in all likelihood, did not initially recognize.”

     You turn around, and are startled enough to see that he’s taken his shirt off that you spill more water on the carpet. But obviously, for you to bandage his arm, he needed to do that, and you manage not to stare, instead sitting beside him and carefully starting to wash the cut. He keeps talking calmly, looking straight ahead and down. “If they’d meant to kill you, they would have been watching your movements, would have known you were present, and would have allocated at least two to kill you, not one.”

     You nod, supposing that makes sense. It does make you feel a little better, knowing that probably you don’t have to worry about that happening again, but--”Why were they trying to kill you, though?”

     He smiles. “If it’s your uncle, then my analysis of his plans and motives is somewhat incorrect. If it’s someone else—the plot thickens!”

     “You sound as if you like that idea,” you comment, wrapping linen around his arm. You can’t help noticing how smooth and pale his skin is. If it were not for all the blue veins showing so clearly though it, you’d almost think he was made of marble. 

     Instead of answering right away, he startles you by turning his head and kissing your wrist. “You cannot but admit that it would be interesting,” he replies. 

     Your cheeks have flushed pink, you can feel, and you permit yourself to say what you’re thinking: “We were dancing and you didn’t try to woo me, and alone on a balcony and alone in a room and you still didn’t—but now that we were nearly assassinated and I’m in the middle of trying to bandage you, you decide that this is the time?”

     He’s laughing by the time you finish. “Why not? Unless you have objections….”

     You knot the bandage and turn to wash your hands, saying just loud enough for him to hear, “None I can think of at the moment. Just…please refrain from winning my heart and then being murdered.” 

     “I can’t refuse such a reasonable request,” he says, ridiculously matter-of-factly, and you find yourself laughing–and then falling asleep standing up, mid-laugh, falling, feeling startled panic that cannot keep you awake.


	4. Chapter 4

     You wake with morning light in your face, still in your dark dress that you’d donned for breaking and entering, lying curled up under a blanket on your bed. Nobody is in the room. You rise and wash and dress, feeling muddled but frightened, both by the assassination attempt and by your far too sudden sleep.     

     You gasp as you enter your sitting room, for a lady is hovering in the flames of the low brazier that is in the center of it. Her long blue gown is not burning, and she and Loki are talking, animatedly.    

     Loki turns his head and smiles at you. “And here she is.” He holds out his hand to you. “Mother, this is my betrothed. Dear, this is my mother, and she’s not in the fire–we’re projecting illusions.”    

     “I see,” you say softly, as you walk over, and take his hand readily enough, feeling much in need of any reassurance you can get. “I am honored to make your acquaintance, Lady Frigga.”    

     “As I am to make yours,” she says with a smile as warm as the red-gold hair piled on her head and flowing down her back. She’s very lovely, and very motherly.

     “Loki has been telling me of your somnolence, and I believe there may be a reason why doctors have been useless to you.” She pauses, and then asks carefully, “Do you have any enemies who are skilled in magic?”

     Oh. “Not that I know of,” you say quietly, only realizing that you’d nervously squeezed Loki’s hand when you feel him hold yours tighter. “Am I under a curse?”

     Frigga nods. “I have consulted Eir, our Healer, and she says that your symptoms are unlikely to be medical; whereas I know they could be magical. Loki will attempt to break it, with my counsel added to his knowledge; your first step, if possible, will be discovering who cursed you.”

     “Which is why I’ll be visiting that restricted area of the library again tonight,” Loki says, seeming rather excited about this whole project. You feel as if he’s going to delightedly say “I’ve never had the chance to break a curse like this one before!” at any moment.

     “Thank you,” you say to them both, because what else can you say? “I, ah, I hope it works; I’m very grateful that you’re going to try.”   You see understanding in Frigga’s expression; and yes, in Loki’s too, just a bit more reserved and a bit more mixed with enthusiasm for solving this magical problem.

     “Of course we’ll try,” Frigga says gently. “It’s a most unkind curse–” She breaks off mid-sentence and looks to the side, whispers, “Your father,” and vanishes.

     When you look at Loki there are lines between his brows. “He has ordered her not to speak to me, for the present,” he explains tersely, and then his expression softens as he looks down at you, seeing how silent and shocked you are. “I truly will essay to deliver you from this.”

      “And enjoy it too,” you say, managing a wry smile. He’s still holding your hand, and you don’t want him to let go. You feel like without that reassurance you might fall over from the overwhelming idea that you’re cursed, cursed like a girl in a tale.

     “Well, yes,” he admits. “But do not think me careless of the result. You are mine to protect from any jeopardy, including this currently inexplicable one.” He lifts your hand and lightly kisses your knuckles again, a little longer than the first time you met. “May I refer to you as mine? Since you fell asleep in my arms last night.”

     “I fell into you and nearly knocked you over,” you guess, and he sighs, smirking.

     “Must you be so prosaic, dear?”

     You laugh, as he has made you do so often now, and you feel better. “I see why your friends call you Silvertongue…. I never know how much you mean and how much you’re jesting.”  _Do you really want to win my heart, and merely have a jesting way of trying–do you think you could love me and want me to love you? Do you feel sorry for me and maybe like me, and all the wooing is to cheer me and make our marriage a bit more pleasant? Or are you wooing me because you find it amusing to watch how I react?_

“ _Allies_.” He hands you into a chair and gracefully sits on the ottoman at your feet, releasing your hand. “My allies call me that.”

“Then what do your friends call you?” you ask, pulling your wrap closer around your shoulders. It’s a cold summer, more like spring or autumn.  

     “I’ll let you know, if I ever have any,” he says with a smile, belied by a bitterness that tenses his lips as he looks up at you. 

     “I consider myself your friend,” you say softly. “What should I call you?”

     His expression relaxes a little. “Think of that yourself. But not today.” He brushes a few strands of hair back from his face. “What did you think of Mother?” 

     “She’s lovely,” you say unreservedly, ignoring a bit of disappointment that he didn’t say that he thought of you as a friend too. “Why isn’t she supposed to talk to you, if I may ask?”

     “It’s a long story,” Loki says thoughtfully. “The same I assured you you didn’t want to know–-but perhaps, if we are friends, you should know it.” He shows no indication that he knows how much that clause pleased you. “It’s also the story of why you’re betrothed to me instead of to my brother.”

     “I did wonder,” you say frankly, making him smile. “I heard that he was banished, and also that he eloped with a mortal.”

     “Both true, though the second is slightly exaggerated. But I’d best begin at the beginning.” And he does, and it’s a very long story indeed, which he makes less and less of an attempt to make humorous as it goes on. His older brother, according to him, is “the sort of man who tries to invade a realm with four friends and a brother and thinks throwing me is a clever tactic in war”–and was about to become the king of Asgard. He decided that he needed to show their father, Odin, whom he usually simply calls “the Allfather,” that Thor was a feisty idiot, and so he let Jotuns into the treasure vault during Thor’s coronation. You are curious about what Jotuns are, but he merely says hastily, “frost giants–defeated enemies of Asgard,” and keeps telling the story.

     Thor had indeed gone into a wild rage, and Odin had decided he was not ready to be king–but the rage had been so wild that the aforementioned undermanned invasion had happened, King Laufey of Jotunheim had declared war on Asgard, Thor had been banished, and the Allfather had fallen into the Odinsleep. Whatever exactly that is….

      By now he is telling his story quite seriously, staring into a distance that isn’t there. The wistful, reserved sadness on his face makes you want to comfort him somehow, but all you do for now is listen attentively as he tells you that his mother made him the king, since someone had to be; and that he had told Thor that Odin was dead and that Frigga had forbidden him to return; and had tricked Laufey into coming to Asgard, where he had killed him. Odin had awakened a few hours after that, and had made a new peace with Jotunheim by blaming Loki and promising to banish him.

     “I would have been banished, were it not that Thor had fallen eternally in love with some pretty mortal woman who apparently tried to murder him, and so he refused to make any other marriage.”

     “So marrying me is your punishment for protecting your realm,” you summarize, feeling as if you ought to apologize.

     He shakes his head, looking up at you with a slight smile. “Say rather that marrying you rather than being punished is my extraordinary good fortune.”

     “I suppose it would be better than being banished,” you say softly, trying not to mind that you feel that that’s all you are, the lesser of two evils. You expect him to either agree or to flirt with you lightheartedly to cheer you up, but instead he takes your hand and very softly holds it to his cheek, making your heart race.

     “Even these few days have shown me that you are a pearl past my deserving,” he tells you, and you believe that he means it. You can’t look away from his gaze, from his green eyes asking and asking for something the identity of which you don’t know yet–but there is a large part of you that wants to give him whatever it is. Dark lashes brush against your wrist as he looks down, and you tremble as he begins to kiss your hand again and again–-

     And then an extremely loud and high-pitched avuncular scream from the hallway completely breaks the mood. Loki grins as your uncle’s footsteps stumble away, and gently releases your hand. “I heard him walking past–very unique footsteps–so I thought I’d make an illusion of a viper for him.”

“Just now?” you say.

“Yes, just now.”  He looks at you innocently. “Why do you ask?”


	5. Chapter 5

     A week since your betrothal, and the two of you had finally managed to find a good night to break into that restricted room of the library–not really that exciting, in the end. Mostly history books. Though the bloodstains you had to walk over to reach the room certainly added something to the experience. No more assassination attempts have been made, maybe because Loki has been being very careful. 

     Now you and Loki are sitting on the floor near your brazier, surrounded by heaps of as many books as the two of you could carry out in bags, searching for clues as to who could have put a curse on you. You’ve never felt happier, despite your tiredness still becoming worse. The two of you are indubitably friends, and even though you know it’s been a very short time since you’ve met–you’re in love with him.  _Why not?_ you think. _I know he is kind to me, I know he treats servants decently, I know he’s clever and brave and witty and lonely–even if he never really loves me, he’ll be kind._

     “There is a matter we must discuss,” he says softly, making you look up from your book–which for the last ten minutes you have not been reading, because you are having a hard time staying awake and because you are daydreaming about kissing him. “Our marriage–I wish you to know that I will continue to sleep in my own chambers for the present. Not for any reason that would insult you, but because I do not wish to…ah…take advantage of your gentle nature.”

     You’re almost certain that he is faintly blushing, and you certainly are. There is no possibility of saying anything other than a barely audible, “That’s very courteous…” and then quickly burying your face in your book.

     You don’t look up until you hear him whisper sharply, “What?!” He is staring wide-eyed at a dusty old brown Annals of Dísniheim. “This is claiming that I have an older sister,” he says after a moment. “I’ve never–never heard anything regarding this.” He points at a name on the page–Princess Hela Odinsdottir of Asgard, and looks at you questioningly.

     “She was real,” you affirm carefully. “A well-known part of history, here–-one of our kings almost married her.” And supposedly she was killed by Odin at some point, but that would be an awkward thing to tell him. 

     He’s silent for a long moment, face hard and tense as he looks at that name. “My brother doesn’t know she existed. Or my mother. I’m all but certain of it.” He puts a piece of paper into the book to mark the place, saying with endless bitterness, “I shall have to learn more of her, once we’ve solved the problem of your curse.”

* * *

 

     By the day of your wedding, the curse is still unsolved, but you are most certainly distracted from it. You stand before one of the greatest crowds you’ve ever seen, very straight and quiet and proper and quite awake, heart pounding. Your uncle is hiding in his room screaming about snakes, since Loki didn’t really want him at the wedding.Your white dress, accented with a forest green sash, flows to the ground, the lacy train trailing behind you down the steps you just ascended and the lacy cuffs half covering your hands. Pinned to the shoulders of your gown with emeralds and flowing so it half covers the train is a white silk cape, very light, lifting with every stir of the air in the temple. An emerald tiara is on your loose hair, and an emerald necklace rests on your collar bones.     

     Loki walks–no, strides–in, and you forget to breathe for a moment. He smiles when he reaches you, before taking your hands in his for the exchange of vows, and you realize why so many maidens in stories swoon when in love. It’s because one forgets to breathe so often.     

     The vows of your realm are simple and short, and you both repeat them seriously, promising fidelity and care for each other. A promise to love is not in them, but you make it silently with your eyes, and you think he has accepted it, whether or not he is ready to make a like one. The moment comes when all the vows are said, and he softly kisses your hand–not your lips, as many grooms do at this moment, but it is an affectionate kiss all the same, and you are happy as you walk away from the altar, hand in his. 

     After the feast is over, you return to your rooms to be helped to change into something easier to move in. When that is finally done and you are wearing simple green silk, you go to your sitting room, heart beating rather fast because he might be there. He’s there, reading, face a little too pale, a line between his brows; eyes fixed to the page and yet looking as if he wished he’d never seen it. He looks up at you sharply, looking–sad.“What’s wrong, my love?” you ask anxiously as he stands, forgetting that you meant not to call him anything of the sort until he had first called you such.

     After a moment in which he seeks words, he says very quietly, “I have discovered who put the curse on you. My…sister, Hela.”

     You smile ruefully. “Awkward, but, well, we’re used to kin acting like that,” you say soothingly, stepping closer to him. “Why did she? I’ve never met her.” 

     He shakes his head, taking your hand in his. “It was nothing to do with you–only your ancestors. Perhaps you’d best read the account–I’ve checked it with two others and I fear it is accurate.”

     You sit beside him on the couch, the spotted old book on your lap, and read the story….  “The day she is twenty years of age, she shall fall asleep and never awaken until Hel freezes.” You read it three or four times, knowing that you are the next princess in that line, and then you look up at him, saying (though he knows): “I’ll be twenty in two weeks.” You know not what else to say. It fits too well with the worsening sleepiness and other known history to be false. Two weeks, and then–you feel as if you should panic, but instead you just look at him, as if you think he’ll know what to do.

     But he doesn’t, you can tell he doesn’t–he’s thinking, but he doesn’t know what to do. He looks stricken, and then you can’t see his face because he has put his arms around you and is holding you.

     You cling to him, closing your eyes, trying to process this doom. It’s all too much–you’re frightened and you’re sad and you’re sorry, but your mind can’t feel all of that at once and instead you find yourself thinking about the tick-tock of clocks, the crackling of the fire in the brazier, the slipping of silk against your ankles, and most of all how it feels for him to hold you, so closely and protectively. _I love you_ , you think. _I love you, and I don’t want to leave you_. You realize you are shivering.

     Hesitantly and then as if it’s an old habit, he strokes your back, telling you softly, “I will attempt to break this, I give you my word. I’ve already a thought on how it may be fulfilled….”

     You do not feel very hopeful, but you are grateful, grateful that he wants to try, that he’s comforting you, that you aren’t alone. “I’m glad that at least I can give you your kingdom,” you say softly, meaning it. “If I’m asleep but alive, you’ll still be the king–”

     “Do you think I’ll want it?” he says, unexpectedly vehemently, making you look up at him.  “Do you truly think that I’ll delight in having this realm to rule  without you beside me?”

     “I didn’t think you’d care so much,” you whisper. “Why do you care so?” You look up at him, wondering, hoping but not hoping. _Do you love me? It’s all I want, if you do. I’m sorry, if you do. His arms tighten around you._

     “Because I’m ambitious, not heartless? Because you have never had the chance to live?” His lips press tightly together. “Because you have a sweet, wondering heart and longing eyes and I know I could have loved you–”

     “You could?” you echo, glad that he’s told you, glad to know that he could have. But it wasn’t merely that.

     “I do,” he says, gazing at you without jest or mischief, just sadness and love that you wonder if you were too shy to see before. He smiles, or tries to, after a moment. “If I didn’t, I would have kissed you earlier–but I didn’t wish half the realm to see the first time I claimed your lips.”

     Despite everything, you find yourself smiling, a mixture of love and fear and fulfillment and disappointment and hope and lack of it spinning in you. You reach up and gently touch his cheek, catching your breath as you see how your touch makes a faint blush come to his face. “They are yours, as I am,” you whisper, and close your eyes as he bends and kisses you, one that lasts for what feels like hours. You scarcely have time afterwards to open your eyes before one of the startlingly sudden sleeps comes, that busy days tend to give you now.

     When you awaken it’s late in the evening and you’re still in his arms–though cradled now, you realize with a contented sigh as you open your eyes. He smiles at you, calm now.     

     “I didn’t dream that, did I?” you ask, just making sure, and he shakes his head before putting a light kiss on your forehead.    

     “All quite real, dearest…the good and the bad…I’ve been musing upon Hela’s prophecy, and I believe our best course of action is to seek to discover her present whereabouts--is she in Hel?”    

     “Two weeks,” you say, feeling hopeful but frightened. “Perhaps we can do it.”    

     He shakes his head. “Two weeks for you to research. A lifetime for me. Should we not solve the mysteries in time, I will not rest until you are reawakened and again in my arms. Never doubt that.”     

     “I don’t, my love,” you say softly, nestling closer to him. “I never will.”

     He begins to stroke your hair, holding you untiringly, and you wish this could last forever. It’s close to midnight when he says carefully, “If I am to return to my chambers tonight, I had best be on my way,” and though his anxiety not to impose on you is a bit ludicrous considering your wedded state and how clear you have made your feelings for him, it’s endearing.

     You sit up, putting your hands on his shoulders, and smile at him, too certain that he wants what you are about to request to feel shy about saying it. “Stay with me.”


	6. Chapter 6

     Your awakening is, to put it mildly, not the sort of blissful honeymoon awakening you might have expected. You snap awake in the early morning to see a shadowy figure leaning over the bed, raising a huge club that shines in the same faint starlight. Your response is instinctive, screaming and blocking it with your arm as it flies down.  

     A loud crack, and more pain than you’ve ever felt before, and a vague consciousness that somehow Loki woke up and went through the nearest window with whoever the attacker was in a single second. It seems like you hear the glass falling forever, and then you faint from the stabbing agony.

* * *

     It still hurts when you open your eyes, but not nearly as much. Your arm is set and splinted and bound to your chest, and there’s morning light and Loki sitting on the edge of the bed, fondling your other hand and looking at you anxiously. “What in the realms happened?” you say.    

     He gives you a relieved smile. “You saved my life, dearest, I believe. Congratulations on the loss of your uncle. Somehow when he drunkenly invaded our bedroom he fell through the window (cutting his throat in the process), and then off the balcony (breaking his neck in the course of that) and into the pond (where he would have drowned if he’d still been alive).”

     He smirks, making you shake your head and say, “You have a terrible sense of humor.”    

     “Well, you can’t accuse me of keeping it a secret,” he parries, and then his expression softens as he looks down at your broken arm. “Does it hurt much?”    

     “Not that badly, considering it’s broken,” you say with a wry smile. “I’m just–He would have killed you if I hadn’t woken up, he was going to….” Your voice dies away.    

     Loki smooths your hair back from your face. “Don’t think about it, love.”    

     But he does think about it, for he breaks a long afternoon of lying beside you searching through book after book for a cure for your curse (a happy afternoon for you, despite everything, with him so close) by announcing, “I’ve comprehended it. Why he was trying to assassinate me, despite that that would indubitably have given Asgard a loophole to escape from the financial alliance.”    

     “And why was that?” you ask, amused by how excited he is about understanding this.     

     “Because he was expecting Thor, when he arranged this. Who would have had his own kingdom to rule and who, once you were asleep, might have barely visited. I would have been in his way and consequently he was willing to risk his alliance to kill me.”    

     You shudder, more hating the idea than excited by his figuring it out, and he notices and sits up to carefully spread a blanket over you.

     “You’re lucky the switch happened,” he says with a lopsided smile. “Thor doesn’t like to read.”    

     “You’re fond of him, aren’t you?” you guess.   

     He tenses and is silent for a moment, but then admits, “Only because it’s you asking–yes.”    

     “Are the two of you reconciled?” you ask hopefully.     

     His silence is enough of an answer, but he gives you more of one. “There was more that happened than I told you…A family secret.” A smile, that you can tell is covering pain, and you gently take his hand in your working one and nestle it against your cheek to comfort him for whatever it is. “Have you ever seen a Jotun, dear?” he asks softly.

     “No,” you say, a little confused.He shakes his head. “But you have. I am one–, adopted, born a monster. I’d rather not show you….” His eyes drift away from yours, and you get the feeling that he’s been thinking of this often, though he’s hidden it well. “Can you forgive me for not telling you?”

     “Of course,” you say.

     “Thor thinks of Jotuns as something to kill,” he says quietly, a simple statement of a sad fact.

     “Oh.” There really isn’t much else you can say about that, not much balm you can offer without knowing his brother, but you turn your head and tenderly kiss his palm, so he’ll know how you think of him. After a long moment you ask hesitantly, “May I see? I promise I won’t be frightened, since I’ll know you’re you.” 

     Lines appear between his brows, but he says with reluctance, “As you wish. I cannot truly transform without something frigid to touch, but this illusion will show you….”Blue like the shadows on snow spreads over him, his veins darkening from pale blue to navy and his eyes becoming scarlet. Complicated markings are adorning his face and hands, and he looks down at you silently as if he is waiting for a judge’s decree, his features both sharp and wistful.

     “I’ve been too shy to tell you before, my love,” you say quietly, truly, “but you’re always so beautiful that when I look at you I tend to forget whatever I’m doing.”

     For a moment you see great gratitude and surprise in his red eyes, and then the illusion vanishes and he smiles as if you’d been flirting all this time instead of having a serious discussion. “How curious,” he says lightly, half lying down. He looks down at you, propped on his elbow. “I tend to do the same thing when I look at you.”

     And then he kisses you so passionately that the healer, you are very vaguely aware, walks into the room, sees the two of you, and quickly walks out again.

* * *

 

     The night before your twentieth birthday, and no cure found despite constant searching–though you suspect Loki has found something that he means to try and refuses to tell you about. But you are too tired to insist that he tell you, almost too tired to be frightened.     

     You lie in each others’ arms, holds as tight as an embrace with a mending arm can be, talking of love and odd memories and things you want to make sure you say. He promises again and again that he will awaken you, and you tell him again and again that you trust that, that if anyone can it’s him, that you aren’t afraid.

* * *

 

      Morning, as you cannot stay awake, and you know in your heart that this is it. “I love you,” you whisper, clinging to him, and he says it back to you for the hundredth time, still calm, reassuringly rubbing his hand across your upper back.     

     “I will awaken you–I’ll awaken you with a kiss,” and you can tell that he tried to smile from his voice, but you are almost asleep now, and when you try to say again that you love him, you are not even sure if your lips move.    

     Hazily, far away, you hear him say your name, with a smile, then frightened, then desperately, hear him pleading with you–”Don’t leave me, my heart, don’t leave me alone….”– and you wish you could answer….


	7. Chapter 7

     You are dreaming. 

     _Loki walks alone through a realm of dark mountains and leaden, foggy sky, a black-clad figure in a grey world. His hands are at his sides, no weapons visible. He approaches a patch of darker fog, stops, and speaks. “Hela Odinsdottir, Princess of Asgard, Executioner of Asgard, Goddess of Death, I bid you hold parley with me.”_  
 _Green stirs in the black fog, a dark and evil green light, and gradually shifts away and in the midst of the fog is a pale face, a beautiful woman with a mauve smile.“Come to see if your sister is real?” she purrs._  
 _“You’ve put my wife in an enchanted sleep,” he says calmly. “It’s rather an impediment to our married life…. I wish to come to an arrangement.”_  
 _She starts laughing, almost as deep-pitched as a man. “Of all the princesses and ladies in the nine realms, you just had to marry the one I’d enchanted.”_  
 _“Obviously,” he says with a wry smile. “If you awaken her, I will free you.”_  
 _“Can you?” she asks, eyes narrowing. “And why wouldn’t you just leave?”_  
 _“Because I want Odin dead,” he says. “And have no need for Asgard, now that I am king of my wife’s realm.”_  
 _“Release me first," she says softly. "And then I will free her; I find you a desirable ally.”_  
 _Loki tilts his head, and then raises both his hands, fingers spread, and begins to speak words in a language you do not know, speaking them as if they are a chain that must emerge from his mouth at an even pace–and then he is silent._  
 _She walks out of the mist, almost as tall as he is, dark clothes tattered and eyes like the green and black mist caught on fire, and spreads the black-nailed fingers of her right hand. Instantly you feel something change in your sleep; a noise or a touch would awaken you. It is sleep merely, not an enchantment. Your arm aches. “Promise kept,” she smiles. “Now, to Asgard…."_  
 _Loki’s expression does not change. He lets her walk ahead of him._  
 _She whirls towards him at the same instant as he stirs the air with his hands and a glowing blue box appears in them.“That weak thing?”_  
 _“Don’t insult it,” Loki says, raising an eyebrow. “I had to involve my mother in a felony to obtain this.” White-cold air and bright blue light blast out from the box as swords fly from Hela’s hands. Ice catches them in midair and then seizes around her as she screams in outrage, spikes of ice pointing back from her arched back. Loki looks at her with calm red eyes, his skin as blue as the winter magic in his hands. “I’m glad we had the chance to meet, sister.” It sounds sincere, even though he says it an instant before, holding the casket one-handed, he hurls a dagger at her heart._  
 _She shatters in ice and aqua light, casting him back off his feet–and then the casket explodes in a far larger outburst, so that you see nothing but frigidly blue light. When it fades, snow is falling all over the mountains of Hel, and Loki is slowly rising to his feet._

     Gentle, familiar fingertips smooth your hair back from your face, and you sigh as you feel his breath on your face and then his lips on yours. “Dearest?” he asks, softly, hopefully.

     Your eyes flutter open and you smile drowsily at him–and then are completely awake and anxiously sitting up, because you’ve never seen anyone have so many cuts and gashes.“Loki!”

     He smirks at you, gripping the headboard to stay upright. “Nobody ever said freezing Hel would be easy,” he says proudly. “Though I can’t say I was expecting the Casket of Ancient Winters to spontaneously explode in my hands….”

     You jump up and steady him, calling for the healers and ignoring him saying that he doesn’t need them, because he obviously does. 

     It takes them more than an hour to stitch or bandage or both everything that needs it; one baffled healer even says that with this much blood-loss, Loki shouldn’t be conscious–to which Loki (who has been giving a rather weird running commentary on all of it, apparently feeling a bit giddy) says with a sweet smile, “Don’t you wish I wasn’t?”

     He looks tired when they leave. You gently squeeze his hand, which you’ve held the whole time. “I dreamed what you did,” you tell him softly. “I..I don’t even know what to say. You went to Hel and killed Death to save me.”

     “Yes, of course,” he says simply, smiling wearily up at you.

* * *

  
      He has drawn you close, and you are lying across his chest, head turned so your cheek rests on his shoulder and your forehead against his pale throat. “There,” he whispers, apparently deciding this suits him. “And don’t even dream of trying to get away.” Indeed, he’s holding you tightly enough that that would be a bit difficult.

     You smile, shaking your head a little. “As if I would.”

     His hand journeys over your back, now lightly tracing your spine, now stroking your hair. “Have you yet thought of what you’ll call me?”

     Indeed, you have; you’ve thought of some poetic names and some silly pet names and some grand ones that might be worthy to be in a list of titles. But when look into his face to answer, what comes to your lips is very simple. “Mine.”

     “I like it,” he says with a smile and earnest eyes in which the asking look has been satisfied. “Call me that forever.”

     “I will, if you’ll call me the same,” you promise, softly kissing the quick pulse in his neck as you again let your head rest on his shoulder.

     His answer is a slow flurry of tender kisses on your forehead and your hair and your hand when he catches it. He only stops when he finally falls asleep, the exertion of freezing Hel catching up with him. 

     You wait quietly for him to awaken. 

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for and inspired by my friend Elly, whose favorite fairytale is Sleeping Beauty. I did not come up with the idea of Hela taking the role of Maleficent; I saw them likened on Tumblr. By whom first, I'm not sure, but http://themiscryra.tumblr.com/ posted two gif sets likening them.


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